


breathe

by ravels (orphan_account)



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Introspection, M/M, Phil POV, Second Person, love letter, proposal, yet again another introspection fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 05:32:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10353300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ravels
Summary: you shouldn't be here. you made it a point that you were going to sleep alone, slammed the doors and stomped your feet all the way up the stairs and through the halls, adamantly, angrily.yet here you are, stealing my duvet yet again.





	

Your breath is soft against the back of my neck, and at this point I’m surprised I can still feel it.

You shouldn't be here. You made it a point that you were going to sleep alone, slammed the doors and stomped your feet all the way up the stairs and through the halls, adamantly, angrily. You stubbornly refused to come around and listen to what I had to say, because you're you. When your bedroom door slammed shut I knew that you couldn't be persuaded, because it's hard enough getting you out of that bed in the mornings, even when you're not mad at me.

Yet here you are, stealing my duvet yet again.

This might be a fever dream. Your breathing is warm and gentle and without a trace of the wracking sobs that you had earlier. Your chest rises and falls against my back, in, out, in, and out again. And I can't help but wonder. What happened, Dan?

Answer: The night was young. But even the youngest of nights grow old eventually.

I remember when I was in uni and they taught us about dreams and sleep, about how the brain goes through different phases of sleep. Right now, I don't think you're dreaming. Are you too tired to dream? They told us that one could tell when someone was dreaming by the movement of their eyes behind their eyelids. Your eyelids remain placid and undisturbed, only disrupted by a flutter of your eyelashes. Are you dreaming, Dan? What are you dreaming about?

It feels wrong to ask this. You've been my boyfriend for seven years, though, so I might as well.

Are you dreaming about me?

Never mind, actually. That logic is what got me into this in the first place— secretly presuming you’d understand.

Not so secretly, I still hope you do.

When you wake up, I’ll make you coffee. When you wake up, I’ll cook you breakfast. Pancakes. The fluffy kind.

When you wake up, I’ll, at long last, apologize.

Will you accept my apology? Please accept it.

You didn't answer my question earlier, so I’m not sure. I really hope that you’ll still love me, even after this whole mess is over.

I don't remember when you came into my room. Was I asleep? You probably had your eyes screwed up and red, rubbing them with a fist. Your face was probably marked with tiny, dried-up streams, channels, rivers, seas. I saw you like that once before, in a time before there was anything but a broken sink and a crappy electric piano and a breakfast bar that for some reason we thought was the height of interior design, the breakfast bar that was the venue of so many parties for two, so many nights spent on too much wine and too much youth. The breakfast bar that we sat on when I kissed those streams, channels, rivers, and seas, that one time when the dam broke and you couldn't take it anymore.

That one time was enough for me.

I remember that, but I don't remember when you came into my life, either. See how hopeless I am? I didn't deserve an answer to that verbal pipe dream of a question earlier anyway. There was a gritty screen that had your profile picture on it, and some suggestive tweets from you, and then a Skype call and then— and then, a lot of things. I don't remember what happened before that, though. You were really just a fan before that Skype call.

You still are, at your heart of hearts, a fan, I think. I hope.

Do you remember when I came into your life? I hope you don't. That would be fairer. Please still love me, Dan.

I tangle my fingers through the countless layers of duvet, trying to find yours. Our hands click into place, a combination lock whose password is “love, support, and seven years of hope together.” It's natural and seamless, and we were the locksmiths who built it, the locksmiths who forged it from the ashes of the Manchester School of Law and from the ashes of the past that came before YouTube was even a thing. From the ashes of every disagreement that we worked through, and from the kindling prepared for every disagreement we’ll work through in the future. We can work through this one, just like the others.

Because, through everything else, I love you. And, I think— no, I _know_ — you love me, too.

Your breath is soft against the back of my neck as I roll over and press a kiss to your temple.

Your breath is soft against my chin as I stroke your fingers, finding the smooth band that you put on to fit perfectly around your fourth, the gold band identical to my own.

Your breath is soft and welcoming and warm and gentle and even and sweet, and I love it, nearly as much as I love you.

 

Just kidding. I love you more. (Than anything.)

 

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading this mess of a speedfic lol blease leave comments  
> [twitter](twitter.com/jakfruut)


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